


The Truth May Vary

by havisham



Series: the arthurian modern au (for no real reason) [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Confessions, Dinner Party, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3927451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgan has a little chat with Lancelot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth May Vary

**Author's Note:**

> Another Remix ficlet! The prompt was -- Lancelot/Morgan Le Fay, little talks.
> 
> Thank you, Isis, for betaing this.

“I’m so glad Arthur sat us next to each other,” Morgan said. “That way we can have a little talk, just between the two of us.” She smiled at Lancelot, who looked down at his pudding. 

It was a period of peace between her and Arthur, with little to no treachery on either side. Arthur had even asked her to come to a small, private dinner engagement with him and Guinevere, and a few select guests. When Morgan saw that she had been seated next to Lancelot, however, she saw that despite the little shots of silver now threading through Arthur’s beard, her half-brother still had not quite lost his juvenile sense of humor. 

She had never quite liked Lancelot, and not just out of family loyalty from seeing her sister’s children pushed aside. There was something untrustworthy about the man, something not quite right. She felt determined to discover what exactly Lancelot was hiding. 

Arthur, of course, loved him. But Arthur loved her too, despite ... everything. Arthur was hardly a good judge in these matters. 

“Yes,” Lancelot said abruptly. 

“I’m sorry?”

“We should talk,” Lancelot said ponderously, and Morgan smiled again. 

She was looking forward to this. 

*

After dinner and a stilted conversation with Guinevere and Elaine (Morgan couldn’t remember which one she was), she saw the chance to escape. She hooked her arm around Lancelot’s and complained of the hot room, of feeling faint. A walk in the gardens would do her good, she said. She didn’t miss the split-second flash of anger in Guinevere’s face before it smoothed out again into a social smile. 

Morgan winked at her as they passed by. 

* 

Lancelot was a dull companion. He had no conversation, no innate sense of drama. On the other hand, he didn’t bother denying it when Morgan asked him how long he had been sleeping with Guinevere. 

“Does Arthur know?” Morgan asked, lighting his cigarette for him. Lancelot looked away, in a way that Morgan was sure was appealingly sad for some people. Lancelot was ugly as anything, but it was a sort of compelling ugliness. That, and the constant sadness, made him madly appealing for some. 

(Not Morgan. She preferred her men handsome and meek. But it took all kinds to make a world, after all.)

“You know I will have to tell him,” Morgan said, her voice louder now because of Lancelot’s silence. “I do love the little bastard; at least half of him, anyway. He ought to be told.” 

“You think he doesn’t know?” Lancelot finally looked at her, with no hint of appeal in his eyes. 

“Oh, of course, even he isn’t that unobservant. But there is a difference between knowing and _knowing._ If you know what I mean.”

“I -- beg you not to,” Lancelot gritted out. “It would ruin so much of what we’ve built, the three of us. It would ruin him.” 

“Well, you should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you have?” 

“I can’t answer that. What you do next is only up to you. But I beg to you -- reconsider.” 

“All right,” Morgan said at last. “I won’t tell Arthur.” 

Lancelot closed his eyes for a moment, before he opened them again and looked at her. He seemed almost handsome now, Morgan observed with dislike. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

*

Later, when she had released Lancelot back into the wild, Morgan’s finger hovered a second over Mordred’s icon on her mobile, before she pressed it. Mordred’s phone rang and went to voicemail. Wretched boy, he never picked up his calls. Morgan sighed and pressed her back against the stone wall, and felt left heel break. 

"-- Oh, damnit! 

Mordred! Darling boy, it’s your Auntie Morgan. I am awfully sorry about missing your mother's funeral, you know I hate crying... Anyway, dearie, I miss our little talks. Ring me soon, will you? I have so much to tell you…” 

She finished the call and heard Arthur calling her name. The light from the house streamed out from behind him, giving him an angelic glow. "Morgan, come on!" 

Arthur was _so_ annoying symbolic, sometimes. 

"I'm coming!" she shouted back, hobbling back into the house.


End file.
